CHAPTER 211: CHAPTER 211 – A BELATED DAWN

The winter wind seeped softly through the thick curtains. Pale sunlight dripped inside, dim and veiled by mist. The stone bedroom that last night had been filled with the shadows of candles now felt colder, though the gray light marked the turn of day.

Sylvia stirred awake slowly. Her eyes were still heavy, her breathing still following the slow rhythm of sleep. She felt something warm and soft pressed against her chest. Reflexively, her arm moved, pulling it closer, wrapping herself in a rare comfort she seldom allowed.

And then, her awareness rose sharply.

Soft... warm... and breathing.

Her eyes snapped open, widening slightly.

What she held was not a goose-feather pillow, nor a folded blanket. Silver hair spilled neatly over the pillow, some strands brushing against a pale neck. A calm face, eyes closed in rest, breaths steady, lips parted just faintly.

Celes.

Sylvia held herself back from reacting too strongly. Her heart or whatever served as one in her undead body quickened its pace. The arm that had wrapped so tightly twitched to release, yet she stopped midway.

Her gaze lingered. Celes was still asleep, wearing an expression Sylvia rarely witnessed. No sternness, no sharp glances, only someone who looked... peaceful. Even the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips suggested the trace of a dream-born smile.

Sylvia knew.

She had always known.

Celes often slipped into her bedroom on winter nights. Sylvia had once caught the faint scent of floral perfume left behind on the pillow, or noticed blankets folded differently than she had left them. But Celes always left before dawn, careful never to be caught.

This time was different.

For some reason, this morning, she was still here.

Sylvia closed her eyes briefly, then reopened them. A strange feeling welled inside her part pity, part warmth, and part bittersweet weight. She knew Celes’s feelings well. She had seen it in the way her eyes lingered too long on her face, in the way she threw herself into danger without hesitation, and in the quiet calm that appeared only when they were alone.

But there was Sofia.

Sofia’s image rose clearly: her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her faint smile once held close amid a ruined world. A bond rooted deeper than fleeting emotion. A love chosen, and a vow sworn.

Celes knew that.

Yet still chose to stay by her side.

Sylvia drew in a slow breath. She eased her arm away, releasing the embrace carefully so as not to wake her. But before she could fully pull back, the body in front of her shifted faintly.

Celes’s eyelids trembled. Her shoulder shifted, lips drawing in a deeper breath the signs of someone about to wake.

Sylvia quickly shut her eyes again. She slipped back into stillness, feigning sleep. Her breathing slowed, her rhythm carefully even.

She knew if they both woke like this, the air would thicken with awkwardness. She knew Celes how the woman would cover it all again with a calm mask, though beneath lay countless unspoken things.

It was easier this way.

Easier to pretend not to know.

Celes opened her eyes slowly. The dim gray of morning seeped into her vision. For a moment, confusion flickered; warmth still wrapped her body, the blanket and... the closeness that was too near.

She turned her head.

Sylvia’s face lay only inches away. Crimson eyes shut, lashes lowered in calm, breaths steady. Damp black hair spread across the gray pillow, some strands falling over her pale forehead, softening the image of a queen who was usually cold.

Celes frozen.

A pang of guilt pressed in her chest. Rarely did she fail to rise first. Rarely did she allow herself to be discovered. But last night, she was too comfortable. The lingering warmth of the bath, the scent of Sylvia’s hair, the safety she could not resist all of it had lulled her into forgetting.

Her fingers twitched, almost brushing away the black strands clinging to Sylvia’s cheek. But she stopped. She knew her place.

"..."

Only silence left her lips.

She shut her eyes briefly, steadying her breath. Then slowly, carefully, she shifted, preparing to leave the bed without a sound. Her movements were shadow-smooth: tucking the blanket back into place, ensuring Sylvia’s face remained shielded from the cold.

Yet before rising fully, her gaze lingered once more.

She knew Sylvia would never return her feelings. Another already lived in that heart. But she also knew, no one could forbid her from staying at Sylvia’s side, for as long as she was allowed.

Celes leaned down slightly, letting her forehead almost touch Sylvia’s never quite making contact. A distance that remained unbridged, like a confession left to the air.

Then, she rose at last.

Sylvia heard everything.

The faint movements, the brush of blankets, even Celes’s held breath as she restrained herself.

Still, she kept up the pretense of sleep.

Behind her shut eyes, she felt the closeness, then its retreat. A tightness filled her chest not pain, but weight. The burden of knowing, yet choosing silence.

She did not wish to be wounded.

But she also could not give what Celes longed for.

As the soft footsteps faded, the bedroom door creaked and closed, Sylvia finally opened her eyes.

She stared at the ceiling a moment, then exhaled a long breath.

"...Celes," she whispered.

No answer. Only the hush of morning returned.

The sun rose higher, its light slipping through the window. Sylvia sat up, her still-damp hair tumbling in disarray. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the cold stone floor.

She lingered there, silent. The warmth left by Celes’s body was fading, dissolved into the winter air that pressed against her bones or perhaps only against her wearied mind. She rubbed her upper arm absently. Though her undead body could not truly freeze, something about the chill always felt sharper when her thoughts were heavy.

At last she stood. Her bare feet touched the gray fur rug, steps slow but steady toward the small washroom connected to her chamber.

She twisted the faucet above the marble basin, hoping water would flow to wash her heavy face. But... click, click... only the stiff groan of frozen hinges. Not a drop came out. A thin crystalline layer sealed the mouth of the pipe shut.

"...Of course," Sylvia muttered flatly, weariness seeping through her tone.

Even the season’s frost had conquered the water within the pipes. She shut the faucet roughly, turning instead toward the balcony.

The glass doors were fogged with condensation as she pushed them open. Winter wind rushed in at once, tossing her long black hair. The stone balcony revealed the city veiled in white haze. Roofs, frozen streets, skeletal trees without leaves all looked like a painting of gray stillness.

In one corner stood a large iron drum, its top sealed tight by thick ice, glinting faintly beneath pale morning light.

Sylvia sighed. She raised her hand slowly, fingertips sparking with violet-black fire Nether Flame, not of this world, both cold and hot, whispering like restless spirits.

The flame touched the ice. Thin cracks webbed across its surface, melting slowly with sharp hisses and faint popping sounds. Steam curled upward, carrying a metallic tang.

Soon enough, enough ice gave way to water. Sylvia snuffed out the flame with a flick, then lifted the wooden bucket beside the drum. She dipped it in, drawing up the cold water that still faintly smoked.

"At least one thing I can do myself," she murmured, voice quiet, expression still flat.

She carried it back to the washroom. Setting the bucket by the basin, she poured carefully. The clear water mirrored her pale face, red eyes dulled, faint shadows beneath them betraying too many nights spent over documents.

She scooped with both hands, splashing her face. The cold stabbed her skin, forcing a deep breath from her lips. Some measure of relief followed. Water always revived her, though her body no longer needed such revival.

When finished, she dabbed her face dry with a cloth by the basin. Her long hair still clung in damp, tangled strands. She moved to the small stool before the tall mirror.

Her hands began to arrange her hair. A silver comb slid from roots to ends, untangling knots with a soft ssrrhh in the silence.

"What style today..." Sylvia murmured to herself, staring at her pale reflection. She had never cared much, but lately... something urged her to notice such small details.

She tried parting her bangs, dividing the back, attempting a tie, then abandoning it. A twist, then a shake of her head. At last, she sighed and chose the simplest: a braid.

Her fingers wove the black strands deftly, forming a long braid that fell over her left shoulder. Imperfect, but enough to give her face a touch more maturity.

"Hm. Not too bad."

She rose, moving to the large wooden wardrobe by the wall. The doors groaned as she opened them, revealing rows of dark gowns. Her eyes moved slowly, weighing her choice.

At last, she drew out a deep blue dress trimmed with black embroidery at the sleeves and collar. Its heavier fabric suited the winter’s bite. She slipped into it, fastening the slim ribbon at her waist.

Returning to the mirror, she studied herself briefly. Crimson eyes still weary, braided hair, a gown that lent her regal weight. A queen, struggling to remain composed against winter’s cold and endless papers.

"Yes. This will do."

She stepped from the washroom, back to her desk where a fortress of documents waited. Her gaze lingered, calm but heavy.

This time, though, she chose something first.

Lighting a small enchanted candle on the desk, she reached for the iron kettle she had set aside the night before. With a flicker of Nether Flame, she warmed it. Soon, a gentle bubbling rose from within.

From a small wooden box, she withdrew a pouch of dried black leaves. Dropping them into a porcelain cup, she poured the hot water. Fragrance unfurled instantly, filling the air with warmth that defied the winter morning.

Sylvia sat down, letting the tea steep slowly. While waiting, she opened the first sheet from the untouched pile of work.

The scratch of pen on paper began to fill the room. Krrt... krrt... blending with the faint breath of rising steam.

Every so often, she paused, lifting the cup, gazing into its dark surface. She did not sip, only held the heat against her hands before setting it back down.

A new day had begun